


Every Tuesday Evening

by eimeo



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-10 21:19:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eimeo/pseuds/eimeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP featuring kind-of-voyeur!Spock, half-naked-and-glistening!Kirk, and the Red Gym Tights of Awesome. Oooh, and wrestling. NC-17 wrestling.</p><p>With huge thanks to T’Lara for her usual thorough and fantastically-helpful beta-read, and to the wardrobe folks on Charlie X for giving us Starfleet-issue skin-tight exercise pants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Tuesday Evening

Quadriceps flex, knots of muscle gliding sinuously beneath the thin red fabric. Toes, planted firmly into the mat, curl reflexively and a shimmering play of shadow and light describes a corresponding tension in tightening calves. Slowly, deliberately, one leg rises slightly, opens the stance and re-centers, foot caressing the floor as lightly as a dancer. Naked shoulders roll: ripples of trim, pale flesh, flushed with exertion, beneath tousled hair, spiky with sweat. Lines of moisture trickle unhurriedly down a smooth back, captured by the hollow at the base of the spine, where the plane arcs abruptly into two rounded, red-sheathed buttocks, and an arrow of darker red marks a gathering pool of sweat. Spock stands in the empty doorway, black tunic melting into the shadows of the darkened locker room, and watches.

 

Lieutenant Fisher says something too low to hear and a rumble of laughter agitates the admiral’s rib cage and causes his hands, raised defensively in front of his face, to curl momentarily into fists. They are pacing in a lazy circle, soft pads of bare footfall on vinyl as they shuffle, crabwise, eyes locked on each other. Fisher is perhaps fifteen years younger than Kirk, but the admiral has ten pounds on his crewman, and a body honed by many years’ service in a physically demanding job. There is a loosening around his stomach, skin hanging a little more freely these years than when he first took command of his ship, but there is power in the curve of his arms, flesh stretched economically over the subtle swell of biceps; in the square, narrow hips; in the firm curve of his gluteus maximus, sucking the slippery fabric into the hollows of muscular contraction as he moves. He is approaching his mid-forties now, but his body has not yet registered the approach of middle age. 

 

Fisher knows this. As the relentless circling turns his back on their hidden observer, Spock can see that he is panting slightly, ribs rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. Kirk’s grin is wolfish, predatory; eyes hooded as he mutters something that provokes an audible laugh from his companion and an indignant, “Yes, sir.” His only advantage is surprise, and he employs it as best as he’s able, so suddenly that it almost achieves its goal: the lieutenant’s arms abruptly drop, slamming into Kirk’s, and shock blanks the admiral’s face for an instant as his partner captures his chest in a vise-like grip that steals his breath. But sweat has slickened Kirk’s skin and the encircling arms cannot find a reliable purchase. Kirk takes advantage of Fisher’s consternation and topples them, pitching his weight forwards so that the younger man’s balance is thrown off. He tumbles backwards, pulling Kirk with him, and they fall together, Fisher hitting the floor beneath his CO, pinioned by his naked chest. Their faces are inches apart and, as Fisher’s hands grip the admiral’s shoulder blades, fingertips curling and digging into the lines of his deltoids, Spock feels himself hardening and makes no effort to suppress it.

 

Fisher bucks beneath Kirk, and the admiral allows himself to be rolled, zoetropic flashes of red tights and pinkish Human skin as they tumble across the floor. Legs tangle with legs, and it is not clear who grips whom, only that they are pressed together from groin to shoulder, rocking like lovers. Someone whoops appreciatively, and Spock notices, for the first time, that a group of ensigns are gathered in the far corner, seated cross-legged on the mat or leaning against the wall, eyes fixed on their ship’s commander and their deputy chief of security, supine beneath him. Fisher arcs upwards, an effort to cast off the body that covers him, but Kirk is not willing to be thrown this time and he flattens himself against the younger man’s chest. His hands snake up to encircle Fisher’s wrists, blunt, square fingers anchored around his forearms in an immovable grip. Fisher struggles, thrusting upwards, but Kirk scissors his knees around the lieutenant’s hips, fixing him in place. There’s a peal of laughter from the party by the far wall, and someone calls, “He’s got you, sir!” 

 

The lieutenant’s body goes slack, head craning round in search of the speaker, a self-deprecating grin spread between flushed cheeks. He nods, and Kirk releases his grip, rocking backwards into a squat and reaching a hand down to his crewman, who takes it and allows himself to be pulled into a sitting position. They scramble to their feet together and Kirk raises his left hand to clap Fisher affectionately on the shoulder, his right circling upwards to offer a friendly handshake. The admiral arcs an eyebrow, says something that makes his lieutenant chuckle and vehemently shake his head, and Kirk smiles, joins in the laughter.

 

A buzz of contented conversation drifts across the small sparring room and the atmosphere has changed: where the air was charged, stretched tight like the skin of a drum, it has settled now into easy camaraderie. Kirk lifts a bottle to his mouth, a towel slung carelessly around his neck, and lengthens his spine, head falling backwards. His body is pulled taut, like the string of a lyre, and the fabric of his red Starfleet-issue exercise tights shifts lazily against his skin, describing every contour in stark relief. It is impossible not to see that he is half-hard beneath the unforgiving cloth, and the gentle curve of his erection is framed by arrows of sweat at the crease of his thighs. Unbidden, Spock’s hand creeps downwards to his own arousal, fingers lightly tracing the rigid shape of his desire through the material and drawing sparks of pleasure from the sensitized flesh beneath. In a moment, the party will begin to disperse, filtering towards the lockers, and he will have to step forward, declare himself, but for now he is content to watch, unseen: the sway of Kirk’s hips as he walks, shifting the bulge at his groin with every step; the sensuous curling of muscles beneath his thighs, accentuated by the slide of cloth on skin; the languorous roll of his buttocks; the uneven rise and fall of his chest; the sparkle in his eyes and the heightened color in his cheeks. Spock leans into the doorframe and he watches, and his erection strains against the front of his loose pants. 

 

Fisher drains the water from his bottle, throws a grin over his shoulder, and breaks away from the main party, heading for the lockers. Spock straightens, rearranging his tunic so that his arousal is buried beneath folds of cloth, and takes a step forward. The lieutenant acknowledges him with a smile and a deferent nod and an easy, “Good evening, sir,” as he approaches, and Kirk turns to follow his words. His gaze falls on his first officer and a soft grin spreads slowly across his face, pooling warmth in his eyes. 

 

“Mr. Spock,” he says. “Glad you could join us.”

 

“Admiral,” says Spock.

 

“Dressed for combat, I see.”

 

Spock inclines his head. “Indeed.”

 

The grin widens, and the eyes dip, almost imperceptibly, to the unobtrusive peak of cloth at his first officer’s crotch. Spock feels the skin beneath that covert scrutiny blaze sudden fire. “Excellent,” says Kirk cheerfully. “Lieutenant Fisher’s had his fill, it seems,” - from the locker room door, Fisher calls an amiable, “Yes, sir!” - “And you know how Bones gets if I slack off early.”

 

“Doctor McCoy is pertinacious,” agrees Spock. In his peripheral vision, he registers the bleeding away of their audience, quiet conversation and footfall describing their passage across the floor. “I will be glad to offer my assistance.”

 

His relationship with the admiral is what the Humans call an _open secret_ , which apparently means that everyone knows about it but pretends that they don’t. This is not logical, but Spock finds that he approves. For one thing, it obviates any requirement for discussion or explanation. The commander of the _Enterprise_ and his first officer share a workout in the sparring room every Tuesday evening; this is understood. Privacy is not mandated, it is simply given. Perhaps the implications of that unconditional courtesy ought to be a source of discomfort, but it turns out that it is easy to fall in line with the general consensus. It’s easy to accept discretion when it’s offered with respect.

 

Kirk slings the towel from his shoulder and rubs it perfunctorily across his face, deranging the hair on his forehead into irregular burrs and whorls. Alone with Spock now, his grin turns provocative. 

 

“Ready for this?” he says in a low voice that pools liquid fire in his first officer’s abdomen. 

 

Spock makes himself nod serenely. “I would remind you, Admiral,” he says, “that you have yet to triumph in our Tuesday evening sessions.”

 

His CO’s eyebrow arcs lasciviously. “On the sparring floor, perhaps,” he says.

 

Spock considers this, tilts his head to the side in partial agreement. “This is dependent on one’s definition of ‘triumph’,” he says.

 

Kirk laughs. “True,” he says. “I believe a practical demonstration is in order, Commander.”

 

Spock nods. “As you wish.”

 

The grin flares and Kirk drops his shoulders, curls his back, raises his hands in front of his face. From this angle, the arc of his body draws Spock’s eyeline inexorably towards its center, towards the hollow beneath his ribs where two narrow folds of flesh jut neatly over the line of his pants, towards the straining fabric that clings to the naked flesh beneath like a second skin, outlining the curve of a fully-engorged Human penis against the spare lines of the admiral’s pelvis. Spock’s breath catches in his throat and Kirk rumbles a low chuckle and seizes his advantage. 

 

The tackle takes Spock by surprise and he feels his feet go out from underneath him. There is no time to correct the direction of his fall, no opportunity to twist so that they share the impact; the best he can do is let himself go slack enough to take the bite out of the collision. His back slams into the mat, knocking the air from his lungs, and he feels the length of Kirk’s torso pressed securely against his. A leisurely Human heartbeat flutters against his ribcage, and Kirk’s knee, which he has brought up to protect his groin from impact, slides down the length of Spock’s leg, lowering him into a position that enables him to test his erection against his first officer’s. “I thought as much,” he says, with satisfaction.

 

“Did you doubt it?” says Spock, though his voice sounds thin.

 

Above him, Kirk purses his lips. “It’s these damned pants of yours,” he says. “It’s impossible to tell.”

 

The admiral’s face is haloed by the harsh gymnasium lights, feeding through the gaps in his disordered hair and darkening his skin with shadows. Sweat glistens on his forehead, beaded on his brows and his lashes, on his upper lip, and, as he grins, a drop dislodges and falls directly into his first officer’s mouth. Spock closes his eyes, lets the salty, alien flavor roll across his tongue. Wasteful, of course, to carelessly shed the body’s stores of water, but irrepressibly, incontrovertibly Human. There’s something vaguely obscene about it; a kind of casual extravagance that shamelessly telegraphs humanity’s opulence. That it’s an autonomic function beyond the body’s conscious control seems less like mitigation than excuse; as though something indecent is camouflaged beneath the familiar and the mundane. Like the thick length of engorged flesh, imperfectly screened beneath skin-tight red cloth, pressed firmly against Spock’s answering hardness and held still with all the discipline of a man who has spent years in the company of a Vulcan. He does not need to open his eyes to know that his CO is watching him with frank amusement and naked desire.

 

“I have, however,” says Spock slowly, “no similar difficulty with your own attire.”

 

Laughter shakes the chest that pins him. “Is that a formal complaint, First Officer?”

 

“It is not.”

 

“I didn’t think so,” says Kirk, and bends his head towards Spock’s.

 

He feels the radiant heat as the admiral’s face closes the narrow gap between them, hovering lips halting millimeters above his own. Kirk’s breath is hot against his skin; his scent fills the air: musk and maleness. It’s designed to make Spock complete the motion, to reach for that final touch, to make him concede, but it’s a game: he knows that it won’t work. Instead, Spock tilts his head back and presses the tip of his tongue to the admiral’s upper lip, where his sweat pools against the curve of pliant flesh, and tastes again the evidence of his difference. Kirk makes a small noise at the back of his throat as their skin connects, and Spock opens his eyes to see that Kirk’s are closed. His breath is rapid and shallow, and his arms, where they pin Spock’s to his side, have gone slack. With satisfaction, Spock pitches himself upwards and rolls them both so that Kirk is pinned beneath him.

 

Hazel eyes open wide in shock as his back hits the floor, and Spock uses the confusion to get his commanding officer’s arms immobilized, pressed together above his head. In this position, one Vulcan hand is enough to restrain both of Kirk’s, and he knows it. His lips curl upwards in a rueful smile, and he mutters, “Foul play, Spock? Surely that’s beneath your dignity?”

 

Spock’s eyebrow arcs. “I do not believe my actions violate any rule.”

 

Kirk chuckles. “Only because no one ever thought to regulate against diversionary tactics involving the tongue.”

 

“The procedure is valid, therefore.”

 

“As you know very well.” The admiral grins and rolls his head in the direction of the locker room door and Spock, startled, glances up to follow the line of his gaze. As he does so, Kirk thrusts beneath him, Human cock sliding against Vulcan, and the unexpected onslaught of pleasure whites out his vision for half of a disordered second. In that instant, Kirk wriggles his wrists out of Spock’s grip and uses the momentum to wrap his arms around his first officer’s chest and rock them onto their sides. This is as far as he gets, but it’s almost enough to tip the balance; almost enough to send Spock sprawling onto his back again.

 

Almost. Once again, superior Vulcan bone density weights the scales in Spock’s favor. There’s not quite enough force behind the roll to push it past the critical tipping point, and it goes nowhere. Moreover, Kirk is discomposed by his own maneuver; desire clouds his eyes and he thrusts upwards again even as Spock’s body presses him back down into the mat. Pleasure sparks along the length of Spock’s penis, tightening his gut and short-circuiting his more demanding thought processes. The admiral’s erection is iron-hard beneath the thin fabric that whispers against the brushed cotton of Spock’s pants, rigid against his own arousal as it scrapes along the sensitive flesh, and his brain swims with a mindless need to rut back against that insistent organ. He thrusts, once, and desire explodes in his abdomen like an electrical storm. It’s impossible to leash the urge to thrust again, a third time, a fourth, a fifth - and then he stops counting.

 

Color floods Kirk’s cheeks and his face slackens in pleasure, eyes closed and lost in sensation and, though his lips are tightly pressed together - so tightly that they show against the flushed skin as a thin line of white - little nasal moans of pleasure escape him with every thready breath. Spock leans in and presses his face to the hollow of his CO’s throat, drinking in his scent as his tongue explores the moistened skin, and Kirk’s fingers contract against his first officer’s back, blunt nails curling against the thin fabric of his tunic, digging into his skin with force enough to bruise. 

 

A crimson leg hooks over Spock’s hip and the angle of connection changes, pressure building ahead of a furious rush of pleasure. Spock leans into the cradle of the admiral’s pelvis and Kirk twists his hands in his first officer’s tunic, curling his fingers around hanks of fabric that pull the cloth tightly across Spock’s chest. He can feel the edges of his mind go soft, nebulous, as the need for friction annexes rational thought, moves his hips without conscious instruction. Kirk’s head lolls backwards and his skin is a patchwork of red and white, covered by a thin sheen of sweat, eyes wide and almost feral. Spock can feel the admiral’s thoughts begin to disarray, even without the meld; knows that they’re both close to losing control, but the urgency in his groin will admit no moderation in the frantic pace of his grinding.

 

Abruptly, Kirk wraps his other leg around Spock’s and pulls him closer, restricting his movement to a tight, convulsive twitch, and leans up to capture Spock’s lips in an enthusiastic kiss. The admiral is canted awkwardly, neck straining up from the floor in a manner that impedes his usual finesse, but his hands slide up Spock’s body to tangle in his hair, tensing and contracting against his scalp and drawing his first down with him to the floor. The pressure in Spock’s testicles protests the sudden loss of traction against his CO’s groin, and he wriggles in the grip of two Human legs, but they only tighten in response. Another twist coincidentally brushes his cock against Kirk’s pubic bone, stealing Spock’s breath momentarily in the midst of a complicated tangle of tongues, but the admiral shifts beneath him again, moving out of the path of a wandering Vulcan penis, and Spock realizes, abruptly, that the dance is deliberate. Frustration surges, and he bucks reproachfully at the anchoring thighs, but they are resolute and, though Spock knows that it is within his power to insist, he shrinks from the idea before it has time to form. Kirk bites down on his lower lip, worrying at the soft flesh with gentle teeth as his head recedes, as his hands slide down Spock’s head to cup the nape of his neck, and his eyes are disordered, clouded with lust, but lucid. 

 

And suddenly Spock understands. 

 

It is an effort to pull back, to tilt his pelvis out of direct contact with the admiral’s hips, and it requires an application of the Disciplines that was never mentioned in all his years of schooling, though he suspects that the superior display of logic over corporeal desire would win him an approving nod from one or two of his erstwhile tutors. Spock drops his forehead to press against Kirk’s and breathes deeply as composure slowly returns, edging in around the jagged red heat of arousal.

 

“The door is unlocked,” he says.

 

Kirk sighs: a long, unsteady breath. “I know,” he says.

 

“It is not…”

 

“I _know_ ,” says Kirk again.

 

Spock nods, disjointed. The absence of stimulation has done little to ameliorate the insistent desire sparking along his erection; if anything, it has made him all the more aware of every shattered nerve. He breathes deeply, concentrates on settling his diaphragm, slowing his heart rate. Ignoring the emphatic press of his CO’s rigid penis against his pelvic bone.

 

Kirk’s hands snake down Spock’s back, skittering restlessly against the fabric, seeking the hem and sliding up under it to press skin against skin. Spock’s pants and tunic front are saturated with the admiral’s sweat; he is drowning in Kirk’s scent with every breath. The press of fingers against flesh makes his spine arch upwards, bending into the touch, and, beneath him, Kirk’s lips curl into a half-smile. 

 

“Let me get up,” he says in a low voice.

 

“Negative,” says Spock.

 

Kirk’s eyes narrow and his smile turns lascivious. “We have business to attend to,” he says, and punctuates his point by thrusting upwards and to the side, angle expertly calculated to slide his cock slowly, languorously, along the length of Spock’s hardness. Kirk sucks in a breath as Spock’s own breath fails him, and the admiral’s eyes stutter closed as he is hoist by his own petard. Rising on unsteady elbows, Spock angles his back enough to trail Kirk’s hands away, enough to push himself onto his knees. A hazel eye slits, and the admiral’s shoulders tense, as though he will sit up, but Spock moves quickly to capture both arms before they can find purchase on the floor. Kirk struggles against the grip, feet scrabbling on the mat, and Spock locks his knees around the admiral’s upper thighs, immobilizing him. From this position, it is possible to view the evidence of their recent activity: Kirk’s erection has thickened, straining against the tight fabric, and moisture stains the cloth where it presses against the head of his penis. His testicles are swollen, heavy against the plane of his groin, and his skin is slick with sweat. He is prone and utterly helpless, and the slow grin that spreads across his face confirms that this knowledge has registered.

 

Spock hesitates. The door is no more secure than it was at a moment ago, but the admiral lies, spread out beneath him, glistening and erect and unable to move. Anyone could enter at any time, it is true, but what scene would greet them? The first officer has the admiral pinned during their regular Tuesday workout; undignified, perhaps, but scarcely a picture of carnal depravity. He meets Kirk’s eye and reads amusement there, and challenge. It’s the challenge that decides him. Spock quirks an eyebrow, and bends his head to the admiral’s chest. 

 

His lips brush the bud of one prominent nipple, surrounded by a corona of fine, pale hair, and it stiffens at his touch. Spock opens his mouth and suckles, tasting iron at the back of his tongue, and Kirk sucks in a ragged breath. The arms beneath Spock’s hands tense and Kirk’s back twists, arching into the sensation, but Spock trails his mouth downwards, licking a stripe through the thin layer of moisture, over the line of hair at the base of the admiral’s stomach. His cock butts up against Spock’s chin and the scent of Human sex fills his nostrils. Rapid, thready breaths agitate Kirk’s abdomen and his fingers, pinned to his sides, flex and unflex convulsively. Spock lifts his head a fraction of an inch and the breathing stops abruptly. 

 

Kirk’s body goes taut, expectant, groin canted reflexively towards the face that hovers above it. The air is so silent that the rush of Spock’s blood, the hum of his heartbeat, is like thunder in his ears: the sounds of his desire, magnified in the stillness. Deliberately, unhurriedly, he bends his head to the hips beneath him, hovers, hesitates. Kirk’s legs twitch, muscles protesting their restraint. Spock fixes his gaze on his commanding officer, waits until hazel eyes meet his, until a disheveled head strains upwards to watch for evidence of release. Then, slowly, he lowers his mouth and runs his tongue roughly along the hidden length of a Human penis.

 

A strangled breath twists in Kirk’s throat and his body trembles beneath his first officer. It is by no means the first time that Spock has elicited this manner of response, this fragmentation of the admiral’s habitual self-assurance in the face of overwhelming erotic stimulation, but it never ceases to fascinate or to gratify, and he finds, counter-intuitively, that it is the source of immoderate excitement in his own genitals. He slides his head back down to the base of the admiral’s jutting, rigid penis, which twitches in expectation, and presses his mouth in close, so close that he can suck the taste of Kirk’s secret flesh through the fabric of his pants. 

 

Some kind of mangled expletive bubbles out of Kirk’s throat as Spock mouths at the root of his cock, deep breaths filling his lungs with the musky scent of Human arousal. His tongue traces the soft contours of swelling testicles, the wiry brush of hair that presses up against the fabric beneath Spock’s face, the prominent veins at the base of the shaft. Kirk writhes and twists underneath him, right knee bent, foot scrabbling at the floor, as Spock tastes his way along the length of Kirk’s penis, licking and consuming, fabric darkening in a sodden line where his lips have passed. He pauses at the tip, where pre-ejaculate leaks freely into the cloth in all the flavors of the admiral’s desire, tongue lapping momentarily at the hidden slit before he sucks the blunt, rounded head almost completely into his mouth. It strains against the restrictive pants and the taste of salt floods Spock’s throat: sweat and seminal fluid, the taste of abandon. Kirk’s breathing is shredded and utterly disarrayed now, abdomen hollowing out beneath his ribs with every breath, and his head is canted backwards as he mutters Spock’s name over and over, an unconscious, rapid-fire incantation. 

 

Spock lifts his head. The sparring floor goes very, very still.

 

And then, when it’s clear that no further efforts will be forthcoming in the region of his innervated crotch, Kirk hisses, “ _Spock!_ ” and arches his hips upwards, scrambling for contact. Spock presses them back down against the mat.

 

“I believe,” he says, “that there was mention of unfinished business.”

 

There is a moment of incredulous, pregnant silence. Spock can feel the languid Human pulse beating hard against the skin of Kirk’s wrists where he grips them, and the admiral’s breath disturbs the hair on the crown of his first officer’s lowered head as periodic tremors betray his discomposure. 

 

And then a ragged chuckle rumbles in the admiral’s chest. “You know,” says Kirk, “for a pacifist, you’re quite the sadist.” He worries a hand free of Spock’s grip to flutter unsteadily towards his face, where it pinches the bridge of his nose, and a long, uneven sigh shudders through his body. “I don’t suppose I can have you court-martialed for this?”

 

“Negative, Admiral,” says Spock.

 

His CO’s throat contracts as he swallows heavily. “I guess that’s just as well,” he says. “I can’t imagine filling out the paperwork.”

Lips curl upwards in dry amusement. “Perhaps now you might consider helping me to my feet? I’m afraid you’re going to have to if you expect me to move.”

 

Wordlessly, Spock rocks back on his knees, coming up into a squat. His own neglected erection presses, painfully hard, against the front of his pants, but he rises smoothly to his feet and offers a hand to his companion. Kirk grips and, with some difficulty, levers himself into a sitting position, where he folds in on himself for a moment, palms scrubbing at his face. Then he plants one hand on either side of his hips and scrambles upright, with a little grimace and a wry smile. Vertical and in profile, the extent of his arousal is cast in sharp relief against the pale blue of the walls. 

 

The admiral gestures towards the door. “After you, Commander.”

 

The lockers are cool and dark after the harsh electric light of the sparring room. The entrance opens onto a central changing area: a large, communal expanse of tiles and benches, from which separate doorways lead to the main gymnasium, to the general crew bathrooms, and to the officers’ showers. Kirk grabs a fresh towel from the stack and sets off purposefully towards door number three. 

 

This late into the evening, the stalls are deserted, and the air is chilly enough that they clearly haven’t been recently used. Nevertheless, Kirk waits for his first to step inside and then turns and activates the captain’s privacy lock, glancing up at Spock with a mischievous grin and an insouciant shrug.

 

“There are showers in the crew facilities,” he says casually, and bends to peel off his pants. 

 

Liberated, his erection arcs elegantly out from his body as he gingerly eases the cloth out and over its swollen length, thick and full and brushing his stomach as he rolls sweat-soaked fabric over the fair hair of his legs. Kirk’s scent fills the cool air, feeding Spock’s arousal as he watches cloth separate from skin. He understands that this is part of the game, that it’s a performance for an audience of one, that every move is deliberately performative because it’s designed to be observed; that the admiral wants his first officer’s eyes on him as he steps out of his pants, as he runs his fingers casually through his pubic hair, as he trails his hands over the pliant flesh of his buttocks. Kirk stretches luxuriantly, relaxed and uninhibited in his nakedness, pulling the knots out of his spine. His testicles bounce against his thighs as he shakes out the cricks in his muscles and turns to his first, eyebrow raised in amusement.

 

“I hope you’re not planning to shower like that,” he says cheerfully, eyeing the limp fabric of Spock’s tunic and pants, stained darker black where they’ve been pressed against the admiral’s body.

 

Spock blinks, impassive. “I am not,” he says.

 

“I’m glad to hear it.” Kirk grins. “I have plans that were predicated on that assumption.”

 

The promise buried in the words and the smile floods Spock’s abdomen with heat and desire, and the precipitous rush of blood to his saturated groin is enough to hollow out the inside of his skull. But he says nothing, only fixes his CO with a dispassionate stare and pulls his tunic over his head. Kirk laughs easily and slings the towel over his shoulder as he turns and walks towards the showers with the self-possession of a man who knows he is watched. Spock hears him dial up a low concentration of pH-neutral Vulcan cleansing lotion and a temperature range that is too high for Human skin. 

 

“Can we compromise on water?” he calls from the cubicle. “I’ll go half-scalding if you’ll forgo your sonics.”

 

Spock eases his pants over his own turgid penis and it springs free with manifest relief. “That will be acceptable,” he says.

 

There is a sudden blast of water on tile and a muffled yelp from the Human in the cubicle. “Gods, that’s hot!” complains Kirk. His head extends from behind the privacy screen and his gaze falls on Spock in his nakedness. The admiral smiles, a warm, slow-burning grin, as his eyes sweep the length of his first officer’s body from feet to face, and he emerges, dripping and slick with water, to pad across the floor to the benches. Dark footprints describe his path on the dry tile as he crosses to the spot where Spock stands, coming quietly to a halt in front of him. Kirk shuffles forwards until they are touching toe-tip to toe-tip, and leans in to press their lips gently together. 

 

The kiss is soft, almost chaste. Kirk braces his hands against the wall behind his first, but only their mouths connect them, gentle brush of fragile skin against skin. Spock can feel the tension thrumming in the admiral’s arms as he struggles to maintain the distance between them, to hold himself back, and he can feel the urgency building in his own groin, heat licking across the narrow space that separates two needy bodies, twisting around flesh that is screaming for touch. Almost without conscious instruction, he shifts his stance slightly - infinitesimally - but it unbalances them both and, as Kirk sways and rights himself, their jutting cocks haphazardly collide.

 

The admiral sucks in a breath and Spock releases the low groan that he’s been holding back for almost an hour now, and this is enough, it seems, to crumple any temporary display of self-control. Kirk’s arms fold around Spock’s waist as Spock’s encircle his CO and their mouths open as one, tongues meeting, twisting, probing. Spock finds himself staggering backwards to lean against the cool, marble-effect wall and Kirk presses his body along the length of his first officer, reaching between them to grip their cocks with practiced ease. Pleasure rumbles in the depths of Spock’s throat and Kirk grins around the noise, thrusting against his hand and his companion’s erection. Spock’s hands snake downwards, gliding easily over the damp, shivering skin, sliding over the curve of Kirk’s buttocks, dipping into the cleft of his crack and pressing along the seam of flesh in search of his anus. Kirk ruts harder against the cock in his hand as Spock’s finger finds the tight entrance and circles it experimentally, swallowing the breathy moan this elicits. It is becoming difficult to think clearly, but instinct guides his movements as Spock presses gently, then more firmly, against the puckered flesh, feeling it part beneath his careful pressure. A long finger slips inside the admiral’s rectum and Kirk bites down on Spock’s lip, teeth softly worrying at the tender flesh, as hot, velvet skin clamps down around Spock’s tentative advance. Kirk’s mouth releases his first officer’s and he drops his head to nuzzle soundlessly at Spock’s neck, body splayed against him while that one invading finger caresses the walls of his tight channel. His breath tangles in his throat, ragged gulps of air that trail little noises of rising pleasure with them as they escape, and Spock lowers his free hand to close his fingers over Kirk’s where they have slackened around their penises. The touch causes Kirk’s hand to contract listlessly, and he bucks against the twin sensations of an encircled cock and a finger in his ass.

 

“No,” he says unevenly. “No, stop - _stop_.” His forehead rests against Spock’s collarbone, hot breath ruffling the thick, black hairs on his chest. Spock’s hand freezes but does not retract, and it’s a moment before Kirk can gather himself enough to say, “Not yet.”

 

Without a word, Spock slides his finger free of the silky grip and moves his hands to the base of the admiral’s back, linking his arms in a loose circle as Kirk leans heavily against him. He has released their cocks but he presses himself tightly against his first, and the contact is enough to stutter little explosions of pleasure along the length of Spock’s forsaken member. They stand in silence for a moment, Spock’s heart thrumming in his side, Kirk’s breathing ragged as he runs his hands slowly along Spock’s flanks, up and down, trailing a gentle, effervescent thrill through the skin beneath his wandering fingers. 

 

Spock tilts his head to rest against the tile and releases a long breath. The admiral looks up and offers a shaky smile.

 

“Mr. Spock,” he says. “The shower is running.”

 

In the absence of any particular body within the sweep of the cubicle’s sensors, the computer has dialed down the flow to a reproachful trickle, but it blasts back to life as Kirk leads Spock inside and closes the door behind them. The spray is just on the wrong side of too cold, and Spock hisses his discomfort, which causes Kirk to turn an incredulous grin on him over his shoulder.

 

“As ever,” he says, “my _parboiled_ is your _tepid_. Well, Mr. Spock. I guess we’ll just have to find a way to put it out of our minds.” And he places his open mouth over Spock’s.

 

They arrange themselves just outside the main sweep of the spray, which rather begs the question as to why they’ve bothered in the first place, but the odorless balm in the water gives it an oleaginous quality that slickens the skin it touches. Kirk’s leg slides between his first’s, carelessly brushing a stocky, muscular thigh against his scrotum, and Spock sucks in a breath as electric pleasure shoots up his spine and through his cock. The need to orgasm is becoming acute. Kirk’s testicles graze Spock’s and they are firm and swollen, and Spock knows that the admiral is no less afflicted. There is a kind of critical mass building behind their kiss so that it is almost mindless now, hands sliding carelessly over lubricated skin, mouths colliding and devouring, tongues plundering, teeth scraping flesh. Kirk’s hands drift down to Spock’s buttocks and grip fistfuls of skin with fingers that struggle to find purchase, and he pulls back a little, fixes his eyes on his first officer.

 

“Turn around,” he says in a low voice: a command.

 

Spock raises an eyebrow and Kirk grins. “I don’t know about you,” he says, “But this has become a matter of some urgency for me.”

 

Spock inclines his head. “I concur,” he says.

 

He turns towards the wall and braces his hands against the tile, feet splayed on the wet floor and body canted just enough to correct for the height differential. He feels Human heat behind him as the admiral positions himself, but instead of the blunt pressure of a cock nudging at his anus, there is a swirl of displaced air and suddenly warm fingers are parting his buttocks and hot breath sears his hole. Spock feels the muscles of his thighs tighten in anticipation and knows that this has not gone unnoticed when a warm chuckle agitates the wiry, exposed hairs around the tight ring. There is a moment of exquisite agony as his flesh waits for a touch that does not come, and then, suddenly, there is a wash of saliva against his skin and a hot Human tongue laves his crack from perineum to coccyx. Spock’s disregarded penis twitches at the contact and it is an effort not to drop a hand to fist around that straining flesh, to pump out some kind of release.

 

Kirk pulls away for only a second before his mouth is back, pressed up tight against Spock’s most private skin, tongue worrying at the recalcitrant ring of muscle. He is gentle but insistent, hands parting the twin cheeks for better access as his mouth invades. Long, warm sweeps, circling tenderly around the opening anus, trail full-body tremors in their wake, and Kirk presses in further, encroaching, breaching his body’s resistance, tongue folded into a point as it slips inside the sphincter and Spock looses an involuntary grunt of pleasure. He feels Kirk’s triumphant grin as he slides further into Spock’s rectum, pistoning in and out of the sensitive channel, and when one hand rises to cup his tender, swollen testicles, Spock cannot contain the cry that escapes him.

 

It bounces off the tile, echoes against the walls. Spock feels warm fingers grip at his inner thigh and understands that the admiral is almost as undone as his first. But only for a moment - a fractured, suspended moment - and then the wet heat is back, bathing and devouring, thrusting inside him. It penetrates without friction, and it’s a kind of sweet frustration - enough to stimulate but not to relieve. It’s almost more than he can bear now - he _needs_ release; his body is alive with a mounting urgency, as though a current flows just beneath the surface of his skin, boiling in his gut and sending lightning darts of desire, demand, barreling across his groin. He needs _more_. 

 

“Jim…” he says hoarsely, and he has to force the word past his clenched teeth. He tries again: “ _Jim._ ”

 

Hesitation. Then, pressed so tightly against him that his breath is fire against Spock’s skin, Kirk says, “Enough?”

 

“Yes.” It’s less a word than a sibilant collection of consonants, barely audible over the flow of water from the shower head. “Yes. Enough.”

 

Quietly, the fingers retract from Spock’s roiling testicles, resting lightly against his hip instead as the admiral runs his tongue upwards along the length of his first officer’s spine. Spock is beyond bodily discipline now and he cannot restrain a shudder born of chilly water and over-stimulated nerve-endings as the movement of Kirk’s mouth describes his awkward ascent. Strong, square hands curve around his ribcage, stroking and smoothing at the damp skin, and Human lips trail across from the knot of bone at the base of his skull to press a line of tender kisses to the curve of sinew where neck meets shoulder. Spock leans his head back into the caress, ear brushing against Kirk’s wet hair, and the admiral sighs, a noise of satisfaction. One hand slides down his first officer’s flank and across the pelvic girdle to rest on the small of his back, bracing him; the other disappears into the blank space behind him to line Kirk’s cock up against the entrance to Spock’s body. 

 

Spock feels the head nestle for a moment inside the fold of his buttocks and then a gentle, insistent pressure. For a moment, his body rebels in the usual way and the loosened sphincter refuses to part any further, but Kirk eases forward, careful but relentless, nudging his needful penis against the insubordinate muscle in tiny increments: advance and imperceptible retreat. A modicum of give, and Kirk presses the advantage, pushing harder against the tight hole so that it opens, hesitantly, around the very tip of his cock. Spock feels the stretch, the disconcerting fullness as the ring expands around its invader, the brief second of pain as the head of the organ slides inside. And then the sudden, shuddering pleasure as it grazes the larger Vulcan prostate; the effervescent thrill in his stomach as the admiral, partially sheathed, begins to move. Behind him, Kirk sucks in a breath and closes his teeth gently on Spock’s shoulder as his cock pushes deeper into his first officer’s body, and Spock drops his head, concentrates on managing the rush of desire that is already tightening his testicles. Kirk thrusts within him, grunting now as his balls strike Spock’s with the force of his motion, and Spock understands that he is already close to losing control. A furious heat pools in his groin as that thick, practiced penis moves inside him, every pitch and retreat scraping his sensitized gland, every movement piling tinder onto the fire in his abdomen. A high-pitched wail is building in his ears as the pace increases, skin slapping audibly against skin now as the admiral’s need takes over and drives him into a punishing rhythm, hammering his cock in and out of his first officer’s ass. The hand that has steadied him against Spock’s back snakes around to the front of his body, fumbling across the skin of Spock’s groin and groping blindly for his penis. Kirk grips his lover’s aching dick with experienced ease and pumps the swollen flesh, and Spock allows his head to fall back against Kirk’s once more, allows his mouth to open and noises of incoherent ecstasy to escape him as the first paroxysms of impending orgasm clutch at the base of his cock. 

 

And then Kirk stiffens behind him and cries out - words, perhaps, but unintelligible. He thrusts again, but he’s shaking now, movements convulsive and uncoordinated, as he empties himself into Spock. The knowledge that he is filled with Kirk’s penis, with his semen, causes Spock to thrust harder into the warm grip of his CO’s hand. His mind blanks and there is nothing but the fullness in his rectum and the fire in his penis, the building tension, the unstoppable rush of pleasure… and then he is coming, thick, white streams pouring from his body, striping the tiles in front of him and flowing over Kirk’s hand. He’s dimly aware that he’s shouting the admiral’s name, but his brain has long since ceded control of his vocal chords and the knowledge is abstract, buried beneath the waves of coital ecstasy; it’s only the most coherent sound that he’s making, the least obscene. He has learned to accept this part of their lovemaking as though there is another Spock who appears at the point of climax, the man who is not ashamed to telegraph his pleasure. Not only to accept it, but to find satisfaction in it, for everything it represents. 

 

The other Spock appropriates him utterly as orgasm shudders through his body, as his testicles empty and every rational thought disintegrates. He’s dimly aware that Kirk is still moving inside him in graceless fits and spasms, but only inasmuch it feeds his own pleasure. Spock’s knees buckle and it’s instinct alone that makes his left elbow reach forward to deflect his collapse against the wall; his right hand has closed over the admiral’s as it pumps the last streaks of semen from the length of his enervated penis, fingers twined in fingers, controlling the pressure as the fever recedes and the clamor of agitated nerve endings begins to protest the touch. Behind him, Kirk makes a noise that’s half sigh, half groan, and Spock feels the tension go out of his body, as though a string has been cut. Small shivers rock the admiral’s body as orgasm releases him, echoing along the length of Spock’s spine as they pass along the flesh that links them. He closes his eyes.

 

As ever, there is no way to measure the time that passes in the gray place that follows climax, where there is nothing but the jangle of stimulated skin and the roar of blood inside his skull. Spock is only certain that he’s still awake by virtue of the fact that he remains standing. But as the haze recedes, he becomes aware of Kirk’s cheek pressed against his shoulder blade, the irregular wash of his unsteady breath trickling over pectoral muscles and sensitized nipples. Spock sucks in a lengthy breath of his own and finds that his legs are shaking, that his arms, where they are braced against the wall, will barely hold his weight. Kirk slides out of him and Spock’s ass releases him with reluctance, but it is necessary in order to allow them both to lower themselves to the cubicle floor, to allow the blood to flow back into apathetic muscles, to regroup. They sit side by side, shoulders touching and, presently, Kirk’s fingers find Spock’s and tangle awkwardly around them. The room is silent but for the constant drum of water on tile.

 

Spock’s eyes close again of their own accord, and his brain takes the unilateral decision to slip into a light doze. It’s not deep enough to lose consciousness completely; disjointed images scatter behind his eyelids and residual orgasm throbs in his quiescent penis, his groin, his ass. It’s superficial enough that, when Kirk says, “What time is it?”, he is able to answer, without thought, “Twenty-three forty-one.”

 

A lethargic chuckle; for some reason, this never fails to amuse the admiral. “And our session began at…?”

 

“You left your quarters at twenty twenty-eight,” says Spock. He does not open his eyes. “I arrived at the gymnasium sixty-five minutes later.”

 

“A little over three hours, then.” Kirk’s voice is light, thoughtful, laced with lassitude. “That ought to keep Bones off my back.”

 

“Indeed,” says Spock. A beat. “Though perhaps I might reiterate my strong suggestion that you refrain from detailing the precise nature of your workout.”

 

Laughter rumbles in Kirk’s chest; it’s the sound of a man who is struggling to stay awake. He says, “Your advice continues to be relevant, First Officer.” A huge, consuming yawn. “Though I believe he’s well aware that he doesn’t want to know.”

 

This is almost certainly true. Despite McCoy’s frequent and vociferous complaints about the admiral’s general attitude towards the maintenance of his physical fitness, Spock has not failed to note the doctor’s conspicuous absence from all twenty-three sessions of his mandated training program. In response to a questioning eyebrow, the most he would say was, “Guess that means I trust you to keep him in shape, Mr. Spock.”

 

Another yawn, powerful enough to send a tremor through the admiral’s upper body. “If I don’t get to bed in the next five minutes, I’ll be sleeping on this cubicle floor,” says Kirk. ”Are you staying with me tonight?”

 

Spock arcs an eyebrow. “The schedule clearly specifies that we utilize my quarters for the next seven solar days,” he says.

 

Kirk sighs, but there’s a smile in it. “Can’t blame a man for trying,” he says. “Your quarters are as hot as… well, Vulcan. Still...” He stretches his arms above his head - a long, catlike motion - and pitches himself forward, using the momentum to carry him to his feet. A hand extends downwards towards his first officer. “They can’t be any worse than that shower.”

 

Spock reaches up and catches his CO’s arm, allows himself to be levered into the vertical. He says, “They are certainly no worse than _your_ quarters, Jim.”

 

Kirk grins. He says, “Are we still on for Thursday evening?”

 

Spock inclines his head. “And perhaps it might be advisable to incorporate some small workout into tomorrow’s schedule as well.”

 

Kirk’s eyes sparkle. “I would imagine that can be arranged,” he says. Lethargic arms reach for his towel and he drags it carelessly through his hair, running it over the clean lines of his body, flushed and glistening with moisture. Quadriceps flex as he raises a leg onto the bench, gluteus maximus hollowing as he bends to towel his foot. Spock watches him move: subtle shifts of shadow caressing rosy Human skin as powerful muscles slide beneath the surface; tight, spare flesh unconstricted by clothes and glorious in its nakedness. The admiral’s penis rests gently against upper thigh, nestling against the thick, coarse hair of his legs and pubis, framed by a pair of pendulous testicles whose consistency and taste springs, unbidden, to memory beneath Spock’s wandering gaze.

 

Kirk looks up, meets his eye and grins. Without a word, he passes the towel to his first officer, who quirks an eyebrow and wraps the damp fabric around his waist with immutable Vulcan dignity.

 

“Friday too?” says the admiral innocently.

 

“Friday,” says Spock, “will also be acceptable.”

 

 


End file.
